RoseAnn V. Shawiak Poems

Returning joys felt in childhood, feeling their innocent beginnings filling me again through an artistic grace of musical songs - being played over and over again in my mind.
Being absorbed once again, expanding my horizons and spreading my wings to enter a dimension of freedom never flown in before.
Silently, sounding new ideas into areas of my brain, untouched until just now.
Enjoying their splendid feelings as they fit my style of being from now on.
...

Expressing all of life in many poetical episodes, treasuring my entire array of memories in poems written every day.
Life is based on many facets, yet they are all contained in one human being, portraying them in lines written on paper while listening to all types of music.
Throughout life, transplanting views and ideas into minds of those who read them.
...

Reality stands before us, asking difficult questions in life.
Putting barriers of conversations in our paths, wanting only truths to be spoken.
Getting real, speaking of the concise points of issues between us.
Taking us on journeys where we find our true selves and share who we are with one another.
...

Locating sections of imagination rarely used, focusing in on them, preparing to debut them on paper.
Strangulated in copious ideas, listlessly staring into the light of intellect.
Becoming brighter with each moment, taking care not to break the fragile lace threads holding them together.
Cloudless mind skies, scanning the environment, locating and using sections of imagination beginning to be used in literate prose for the first time.
...

Despair layered on top of itself for years, a grief hidden behind laughter and a sweet disposition from childhood.
Reaching out, but never grasping her future with innate talent and gifts.
A mind rich in ideas with no way to let them out for fear of both failure and success.
A double-edged sword to her fragile being, holding her hostage within, without realizing that it's her self that's crushing her spirit and self-worth.
...

All things culminating in a dreary, rainy day; loneliness filling me with intense sorrow as I write out of it's many puddles of remorse and continuous abandonment.
Never anyone here to talk with when I fall into canyons of grief, always having a final answer to confide in silence.
...

Sheltering my mind through writing, not letting others in, keeping them at bay, so they don't interfere with my solitary gift.
Being able to write, alone in a subconscious state of mind, gives me a gentle joy every day of my life.
...